


Aphelion

by Azdaema



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bad Sex, Beautiful Golden Fools, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon-Typical Prostitution, F/M, Jealous Jaime Lannister, POV Jaime Lannister, Post - A Feast for Crows, Retaliatory Infidelity, Twincest, angst with an optimistic ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azdaema/pseuds/Azdaema
Summary: Jaime makes poor life decisions and comes to some realizations.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	Aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> We all know from Fran what a ["perihelion"](/works/19027609/chapters/45190081) is. "Aphelion" is the opposite: the point in an elliptical orbit where the orbiting body is _farthest_ from the sun. But also—more optimistically—it's the point where the orbiting body stops moving farther from the sun, and starts moving closer to it again.

They passed a whore as they rejoined the wagon train after a sparring session, blades in hand, breathing hard. She called out to them, and Ilyn Payne silenced her with a dismissive wave of his hand—she ought to find other patrons, for this was not either of their wont.

Jaime would have kept walking without a second thought, if not for the way Ilyn's little snort of disgust suddenly reminded him of his brother.

_…she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know…_

The whore turned to go, and in a voice that felt not his own, Jaime suddenly called out, "Wait."

* * *

He had thought he would inevitably picture Cersei, call out her name—that no matter how he fought it, his mind would always turn back to her like a compass. That did not happen, or at least, not in the way he had expected. There was not a moment of it when his twin was not on his mind, but he did not pretend the whore was her. How could he? There was no resemblance, not in the women nor in the act. Not for a moment was he spared the excruciating awareness of how much she was _not_ his sister.

His arousal grew along some other axis, born more of pain and adrenaline than anything else. Not desire for the woman before him, but desire to prove a point—to Cersei, to Tyrion, to himself. It was enough; it lit his anger, and _that_ burned true, _that_ felt good and pure—right until the moment it deflated into ash.

It hit him in the instant before climax. In that moment, something gave way inside of him, and all he had been holding back broke loose.

And then it came, a betrayal of his own body. This was not a climax, this was some biting satire of that. His muscles righted and his insides fell away. He was empty. This was not him—this was some shell of a man, an empty husk, spending himself and gasping.

His insides had always slipped out of his body in that moment, disappearing into his twin along with his seed. But now he found himself floating in the air over his own head, looking around aimlessly for the other half of his soul.

He had never felt more acutely _half_ in all his life.

For an instant he thought he might cry. He had cried the very first time—a green boy finding his way home, ecstatic, besotted, and overcome with it all. Had he somehow returned to that again? But then the lid slammed shut, and the curious numbness rolled back down.

He was warm and cold and sated and empty and suddenly nauseous.

His first coherent thought was, _Why does Tyrion like this?_ But even as he asked the question, the answer hit him: _It had something to do with Tysha._ He couldn't name the exact machinations driving his little brother, but it had something to do with Tysha—that much he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Gods, he was going to be sick. His skin broke out into goose flesh.

This was nothing. Anything his sister had done was nothing. No one else mattered, only them. This had scarcely even been real. Dawn would come; it would be morning soon, and all of this would be forgotten. It had never happened.

The whore was still lying there, unmoving. He reached toward her, reflexively thinking he ought to bring her to completion, but she pulled away. "I don't charge by the hour, m'lord."

"What?" Jaime asked stupidly.

"I've never heard of anywhere but brothels charging by the hour."

"…what?"

She bit back a sigh, trying to keep her tone polite. "I'm sorry, m'lord, it's not practical here. You need a candle or hourglass to measure the time, and everyone always thinks it's been rigged to go faster and gets angry. It's not worth it."

Understanding slowly dawned on him. This exchange had ended when he came. "I only mean to—never mind," he broke off. Of course there was no pleasure in this. Why would there be? If whores were truly wanton or licentious, they would not have to be bribed with gold. Willing women did not require bribes. She had agreed to endure the groping of a stranger, but only until he came. It was over now; she was a free woman again.

With macabre detachment, Jaime wondered, _Had she simply gone away inside? Or did she fantasize about killing me?_ How many times had he fantasized about killing Aerys before he'd finally done it?

The whore pulled her clothes back on and he followed suit, still in a haze.

 _She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know…_ Tyrion had known, Jaime realized suddenly. Even as he spat the words at Jaime—striking at him in the cruelest way he knew how, intent on wounding—Tyrion must have _known_ what it actually meant, or rather, what it _didn't_ mean. How could he not, after how many times he'd done this himself?

A Lannister always pays his debts. Jaime had told his brother about Tysha, and for that long-ago lie and much-belated truth, Tyrion had repaid him. Jaime had once told him the woman he loved was a whore, and so his brother had done the same.

Rage warred with understanding. There was a symmetry to it, and truly, not until this moment had Jaime understood the full extent of his little brother's pain. Ill deeds did not haunt the way betrayed love did. Only betrayed love had that persistence, that insidious gnawing. The world was awash in ill deeds, but they did not occupy a man so, robbing him of the freedom of thought.

Had telling Tyrion the truth about Tysha been equally cruel? Jaime had been sick of lies, and felt he owed his brother the truth. Yet it was years past now, beyond reparation. What use did this knowledge serve Tyrion, beyond keeping awake at night?

Jaime was caught by a sudden memory of being a boy in the stables of Casterly Rock, teaching his brother how to ride. "The saddle's too heavy," Tyrion had said, "I can't lift it." And so Jaime had carried it for him. How was this truly any different, forcing his little brother to carry something too heavy for him to bear?

It had been selfish, Jaime admitted to himself reluctantly. Unloading his guilt onto his Tyrion, absolving himself of that burden and leaving his brother to bear the turmoil instead.

"By chance, do you know a woman by the name Tysha?" he asked as he clumsily laced up his doublet with his left hand.

"No, m'lord. Who is she?"

"My good-sister."

She frowned in confusion, awaiting some further explanation, but Jaime took his leave without another word.

Outside the tent, dusk had fallen and the air was cool. Jaime stopped at his tent only briefly, to gather a few belongings, before finding his horse. He mounted it, wondering how far would he get if he rode all through the night? How far into the next day he could ride before he would have to stop and rest?

The rocking motion of his horse's gait soothed him slightly. He watched the darkened trees of the riverlands pass by.

 _"It's time you had a woman."_ What had that even _meant_?

For Jaime—thirteen and besotted—it had meant the world was wrong in its contempt. No matter how many times he was told incest was despised by the old gods and new, it never made its way to his heart. Abed with Cersei he was alive and whole. When the two halves came together, all his other fractured parts followed suit—the brother and the lover; the son and the knight. They were not a contradiction. The fleeting truth he grasped in those moments could never survive the harsh light of day, but for a moment, he could be all that he was. That was the truth by which he charted his life. That was his armor against the sneers of lesser men.

Tyrion needed similar armor, and Jaime had wanted it for him. With Tysha glancing sidelong at Tyrion, he'd urged his brother to go with her to the inn. But it had gone horribly awry, and at the end, his brother was left with confirmation that the sneers of lesser men were correct. Their father and sister were right in their scorn; he was despicable—not just unloved, but unlovable. No willing women would ever want him, and if he hoped they might, then he was a naïve fool.

Where was Tyrion tonight? _Let him be safe in the Free Cities, not dead and wine-soaked in a ditch._

For an instant, Jaime froze in his saddle, thinking he saw Catelyn Stark in the heavy shadows between the trees. But then his horse continued on and she was gone.

Catelyn Stark's ghost swam before him, and he could not refute her. He was as faithless as her husband with his bastard son. It settled heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach, like rotten meat.

Dawn would come, but it would not wash away what he'd done. This could not be regained, and he would have to live the rest of his life with that knowledge that Cersei was not the only woman he'd ever touched. Proud, he had been, of his fidelity. On the day of Cersei's wedding it had become _his_ , to hold in safekeeping for the both of them. He had been the sole guardian of it—custodian of the sacred flame, watcher on the wall. And he'd lost it.

But then, what did faithfulness mean when compared to oneness? Even his deliberate attempt to belittle their bond had not worked. Whatever _that_ had been—what _had_ it been? some bloody farce?—it had nothing to do with what he and his twin were together. They were made for each other, made _of_ each other; they were as Valyrian steel.

When he reached the city, he need not tell her, Jaime thought. The truth had worked so splendidly with Tyrion, after all. What he'd done was his own, and he need not burden his sister with it, just as he need not inquire after the details of what she had done. He hadn't wanted the knowledge Tyrion had cruelly dumped on him—he would give it back, if he could. There was no need to do the same to Cersei; that would not be loving.

It still prickled him; that Cersei had done it, that Tyrion had told him. But as much as he hates his siblings—and oh, he does, sometimes—he will never hate them as much as he loves them.

He could come to his sister dressed as a serving girl, Jaime mused absently. It would not serve as any true disguise, as it had for her, but it might make her smile, might soften her heart toward him.

The moon sank low over the darkened trees. The road rounded a bend, and he leaned forward and to give his horse a rub on the shoulder using his stump. A slight breeze blew from the south, warmer than he'd expect for a night like this, and gentle as Cersei's fingers.


End file.
